


Over Easy

by Sineala



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Ultimate Universe, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breakfast, Camping, Community: cap_ironman, Hand Jobs, M/M, Stony Bingo, Ults Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: After the death of Spider-Man, it's Tony rather than Fury who comes to try to fetch Steve from his self-imposed exile in the desert. And Tony's not above bribery.





	Over Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhenasInSilks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenasInSilks/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Яичница с доставкой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742998) by [littledoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor/pseuds/littledoctor)



> Written for Ults Day, as a fill for my Stony Bingo square "takeout/pizza," prompted and betaed by WhenasInSilks.
> 
> This is an AU of Ultimate Comics: The Ultimates (vol. 5, 2011) #5-6.

Even though there's not much in the way of landscaping in this dusty patch of New Mexico desert, it's early enough that the smoke from the little campfire blends into the smudged morning sky, just past dawn. The campsite is effectively invisible. If Fury hadn't slapped a tracker on Steve when he'd showed up to resign, Tony would never have had a chance in hell of finding him.

As he maneuvers the jet into a neat landing, a polite distance away from the fire, Tony wonders if Steve doesn't know about the tracker or if he just doesn't care.

Steve doesn't care about a hell of a lot of things, these days.

He unhooks the harness, clambers out of the pilot's seat, and makes sure to grab the duffel bag from the empty row of seats behind him as he hits the button for the ramp. He's got plenty of space for Steve to come home with him in, and plenty of goodies to tempt him with. That's the whole point of taking the jet rather than the armor, after all: to facilitate bribery.

Tony is rather good at bribery.

The figure huddled next to the campfire is facing away from Tony, and he doesn't look up as Tony strides off the ramp, as Tony's expensive Italian shoes sink into the sand. Still no reaction. And it's not as if the landing was quiet.

"Is this a private party, darling?" Tony drawls. "Or can anyone join?"

He paces around to the other side of the fire, and Steve finally lifts his head. Steve looks -- okay, _good_ isn't exactly the right word for a guy who's run off to the middle of nowhere because he feels responsible for the death of a teenage boy -- but, goddamn, does he ever wear that tank top well. Tony takes a moment to appreciate the gun show. He does enjoy the finer things in life.

Steve tilts his head all the way back and looks up at him. "Don't know," Steve says. His voice is rusty with disuse, a touch too loud, like he hasn't talked to people in a while and he's forgotten how it goes. "Looks to me like they've been letting all sorts of riff-raff in." His mouth does a credible imitation of Tony's own shit-eating grin.

Tony claps his free hand across his chest. "I'm hurt."

"No, you're not." Steve's scowling already.

"No, I'm not," Tony admits. He watches as Steve turns the skewer he's holding over in his hand, broiling the other side of the bit of unidentifiable meat that's impaled on the end of it. "What's for breakfast?"

"Rattlesnake," Steve says, as Tony's nose wrinkles. "Also rattlesnake for lunch and dinner. And there's coffee if you want it."

"I love camping." Tony lets his voice drip sarcasm. He walks back around the fire and sets the bag at Steve's side. Steve doesn't open it. "I was looking forward to the part where we ate s'mores and sang campfire songs. And then maybe shared a tent. Just the two of us." He flutters his eyelashes. "I hear that's traditional. I watched _Brokeback Mountain_ once, after all. I know what camping is like."

Disappointingly, Steve doesn't react to the innuendo; mostly Tony can't even get a rise out of him anymore. He thinks Steve assumes it's all a joke. Well, it is a joke -- but it doesn't have to be only a joke, if Steve's interested.

He never has been, though.

Possibly Steve doesn't know what _Brokeback Mountain_ is. Tony's joke is wasted.

"If you wanted that," Steve says, without even a hint that he gets the reference, "then you should have shown up for dinner, Tony." 

"Eh," Tony says. "You know me. Couldn't wait to see your pretty face again."

Too much? Nah, Steve will definitely think that one's a joke.

Steve just snorts, a weary noise, as he turns his rattlesnake on its skewer. The fire crackles. Tony's not going to push him hard. Tony can wait him out. Probably. He watches Steve's roving gaze take in the closed duffel bag like he's trying not to draw any attention to himself, trying not to let Tony know he's wondering about it.

But Tony knows him. He's curious. He'll break. Right about now.

Steve glances down at the bag again. and then back up at him. "Right," he says, "what's in the bag?"

"Breakfast, darling," Tony says, cheerfully. He crouches down and unzips the duffel, and then the insulated bag within, taking out the styrofoam containers one by one. "Eggs, bacon, sausages. Hash browns. Pancakes with butter and real syrup. Toast." He pulls the two Thermoses out last. "Orange juice. And better coffee than you've probably got."

When he looks up at Steve, there's a flash of something agonized and needy amid that disaffected grumpiness, and Tony is briefly, viscerally aware that Steve grew up in the Great Depression, that Steve probably had thousands of dreams that went just like this. Billionaire shows up, gives him all the food he could ever want. Steve starts to reach out his hand for the food, then checks the motion.

"You can't," Steve says, and his voice goes harsh, "you can't think I'm going to do what you want-- what Fury wants-- that I'm going to come back just because you're feeding me. I'll stick to the rattlesnake."

Steve's not stupid. Of course he knows why Tony's here.

It's clearly killing him, but he turns back to the fire.

"Steve," Tony says, patiently. "It's not some kind of... fairy bargain, okay? Nothing will happen to you if you eat the food. You can have the food no matter what you decide to do. Just eat it."

Steve says nothing.

"It'll go to waste otherwise," Tony says, and, okay, he feels a little bit despicable leaning on that, now that he's figured this out about Steve... but only a little. "Come on. It's for you. I ate already."

Steve gives him another glance, and then his fingers inch out along the sand and nudge the edge of the container holding the eggs. Tony wordlessly hands him a plastic spork, and Steve opens the container and starts eating.

Halfway through the sausages, Steve looks up at him and smiles a smile that's something more like what belongs on his face, though his eyes are tinged with sadness. "This is good."

Tony sits down all the way, stretching his legs out. He helps himself to some of Steve's orange juice. It'd go better with vodka. "You're welcome." He props himself up on his hands, leans back a little. "Are you sure there aren't any campfire songs calling to you?"

"You've never gone camping in your life, have you?" Steve asks, as he takes a bite of toast.

"God, no," Tony says, shuddering. "It sounds disgusting. All this... dirt everywhere. And no Wi-Fi." And then he remembers Steve's a city boy too. "Have you, before now?"

"Sort of." Steve's voice is dry. "They don't call it camping when you're in Nazi-occupied France."

"Ah."

Steve eats the rest of the meal in silence. Including his own rattlesnake. Tony supposes he doesn't want to waste it, either. When he's done he unselfconsciously wipes his fingers on his dusty pants.

"I thought it was going to be Fury," Steve says, abruptly. "Not you."

"It was," Tony admits. "But I volunteered. I wanted to see you. I told him I... thought I might have more luck with you. My style's a little different."

The words are more honest than he meant them to be. He's missed Steve. He wishes he had a flask on him, but he had to fly a damn jet out here and even he tries to not fly drunk when he's not wearing a suit that can compensate for his reflexes.

"I don't think Fury would have offered me his ass, no," Steve observes, and, okay, Steve does know what _Brokeback Mountain_ is. Steve has in fact demonstrated that he can quit him. That's what Steve is trying to do.

"Or my mouth, darling," Tony says, with his favorite smirk. "Fellatio is also on offer. Whatever your heart desires."

Steve leaves the offer hanging there. A year ago, two, he might have gotten angry. Or flustered. Now it's like he's just accepted that this is Tony and these are the words that come out of Tony's mouth. Something he can ignore.

Steve draws idle lines in the sand with the end of his skewer. He sips his coffee. "I've made mistakes," he says, finally.

"We've all made mistakes," Tony says. He's beginning to think he should have let Fury handle this after all. He didn't really have a plan beyond the food, like Steve was some kind of wild animal he could have lured home. "We get up. We keep going."

Steve shuts his eyes. "People have died because of me."

"People are dying now," Tony says. "You could help us out there. You know you could--"

Steve shakes his head, and, Jesus, Parker's death really has done a number on him. "There's nothing I can do that anyone else can't do better. You're all-- you're all stronger than me, smarter than me. I'm not a genius. I just show up and punch whoever needs punching."

"It's not about that," Tony says, sharply. "You're more than that. You-- you mean something to us. To the world. To the country. To the Ultimates. We're not the same without you. We need you." He breathes out hard. "I need you, okay, Steve? I miss you."

God, he really needs a drink. He can't do feelings like this.

Steve puts the skewer down and picks up the Thermos of coffee; there's still a bit left, and Tony watches him sip straight from the Thermos. His throat works as he swallows. He sets the empty Thermos in the sand and then glances over at Tony. Tony knows that look from the battlefield. He's calculating. Making a plan.

"Were you serious about that blowjob?"

This is the last thing Tony was ever expecting Steve to say.

"What?" His voice is about an octave higher than it should have been. So much for suave.

Steve's lips draw together. His expression is pinched. "Do you need me to repeat myself?"

Tony takes an unsteady breath. He tries to remember the last time he ever gave head while sober. He thinks maybe it's never happened.

"Do you think I'd have said it if I weren't serious?" Tony asks. He feels dizzy.

"I don't know," Steve says, and Tony can't figure out if he wants to kiss or punch the scowl off his face. "Is this one of those things where I finally work up the nerve to say yes and you tell me it's been a joke all along?"

Wow. Steve's been paying attention to him after all.

"Why don't you get your cock out, sweetheart?" Tony keeps his gaze fixed on Steve's, unflinching. He knows Steve probably thinks it's all a bullshit dominance game, but it's never been one for Tony. Tony's done with games. "Then you'll find out, won't you?"

Steve stares right back-- and his hands go to his fly.

Looks like no one's backing down now.

Steve's cock is in his hand now. It's a nice cock. Uncut. Not very hard yet, but Tony can work on that. Steve's already working on it, his fist curled around his cock, jerking himself off with quick, efficient strokes. The head of his cock is barely visible in flashes between his fingers. He's still staring at Tony as he touches himself, a fact that is doing a hell of a lot for Tony right now. God, that's hot.

Tony crawls the three feet between them -- only to find his path blocked, when Steve places his other hand on Tony's chest.

"You don't actually want to put your mouth on me," Steve says, his voice low and husky. Christ, his sex voice is amazing. "I've been roughing it out here in the wilderness. You really don't."

"That's okay," Tony tells him. "I'm adaptable, darling."

Steve kisses him first, which is another thing that surprises Tony. He didn't think Steve would be that kind of guy. Steve tastes like coffee and he kisses him like he's trying to fuck Tony's mouth with his tongue, which is doing much more for Tony than he expected it to. It's coarse, but he's into it. Tony's cock is throbbing now. His designer suit is ruined.

He presses Steve down to the bedroll and replaces Steve's hand with his own. Steve moans into his mouth and arches up into his grip and, God, Steve's cock feels good in his hand, huge and slick and hard. He rocks up against Steve's hip and imagines Steve inside him. They could have been doing this for years.

Steve is nearly silent the whole time, and when he comes, the only sound he makes is a low, breathy groan in Tony's ear as his cock jerks in Tony's grasp, spattering them both. He's messy. Tony likes it.

Tony's about to pull away when Steve shoves his hand down Tony's pants. As everything in Tony turns into liquid fire, a line down his spine to his aching balls, all he can think, dazed, is that he never expected Steve to reciprocate.

"Darling," Tony pants. "You don't -- oh, God -- you don't have to if you don't want to--"

"Don't be an idiot," Steve says, and he undoes Tony's fly, then wraps his hand around Tony's cock as he captures Tony's mouth with his own.

Steve is a little awkward, with the telltale everything-in-reverse clumsiness of someone who hasn't had a lot of practice on other men, which honestly only makes it hotter. Tony wonders if he's Steve's first guy. Tony digs his fingers into Steve's biceps and feels the muscle strain and flex as Steve's fist glides around Tony's cock and, God, this is about eight different fantasies at once.

It doesn't take Steve long to figure out how Tony likes it. His grip is warm and tight and perfect, and Tony soars high on pleasure, gasping and moaning and urging him on. He hears broken praise spill out of his mouth as Steve kisses him, as Steve doesn't stop and doesn't stop and, oh, fuck--

Tony tucks his head against Steve's collarbone, looks down, and watches himself come, his cock spurting in Steve's huge hands, again and again. He wishes he could film it. He's pretty sure he only gets to do this once.

Steve slides his hand away, wipes it on his own shirt -- a true gentleman -- and then holds Tony close. Apparently he believes in cuddling. Tony's learning all sorts of new things today.

"Okay," Tony says, "but _now_ are we having a singalong?"

Steve laughs. When Tony pulls his head back and looks at him, he's smiling.

"All right," Steve says, and Tony knows he's answering a different question. Maybe more than one of them. "All right. You win. You've got me. I'm yours."

Tony kisses Steve's bare shoulder. He tastes like sweat and dirt. It's disgusting. Tony doesn't care.

"I've always wanted my very own Captain America," Tony says, and Steve just keeps smiling.

Mission accomplished. Time to go save the world again. And then... well, maybe blowjobs.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a [Tumblr post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/179102842259/fic-over-easy)!


End file.
